Doll Verse
by Calm Envy
Summary: Mariku is an infinitely egotistical dollmaker with a violent past. Searching for a 'living doll' who one day captures his imagination, he instead finds Bakura Yurei, and is confronted by stories and emotions that threaten to overwhelm him.
1. The Dollmaker

_Mariku is an infinitely egotistical dollmaker with a violent past. Searching for a 'living doll', he instead finds Bakura Yurei, and is confronted by stories and emotions that threaten to destroy who he is._

**Rating:**T**  
Genre:**I don't even know. Mystery? Angst? Romance?**  
Disclaimer:**All Yu-Gi-Oh! characters belong to Takahashi Kazuki, etc.

**A/N:** Close your eyes. Yami no Malik is reborn as Himesaki Mariku. He is our "infinitely egotistical dollmaker with a violent past". Ooh, not what you're used to, I suspect. That's alright, you'll learn to love him as I do.

Guess who my inspiration was! If you thought Ningyo by Tenshi no Toki (because of the whole doll thing), you're wrong, but I wanted to namedrop it anyway because it is amazing, so go read it. Clue: It was very tempting to name my dollmaker Malik but I thought that would be too obvious.

This is AU. This is not their universe. This is **Doll Verse**.

* * *

**o1: The Dollmaker**

_Godless Mariku has seen an angel. Do you believe me? You would if you'd seen him too. Ivory skin, and ivory hair, and the blackest black hole eyes. Absorbing the light, he_was _the light. I lost myself. Trembling hand knuckling against my eyes. And he was gone._

But you can't take his word for it.

No, no.

For Himesaki Mariku was one of those people you might describe as delusional. Dramatic. Disturbed. Depraved. Once a respected surgeon commanding an eye-popping fee, he had fallen from grace after that…unfortunate incident. Now traits that had merely been passed off as eccentricities were the obvious signposts to a madman.

Mariku hated thinking of that incident. He certainly never spoke of it. It replayed itself nightly in his mind, causing him to bolt upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat and wondering, _Why?_

But that was quite alright. If you were a passerby, you wouldn't know anything of this. Though the incident had ruined a few lives, it was a fairly mild one – as if those corporate assholes out there in their sky-rise buildings weren't any worse – and it had not been difficult for Mariku to relocate and begin life anew.

Even in Kyoto therefore, Dr. Himesaki was synonymous with eloquence and intelligence. He was always carrying a leather satchel around. In this satchel was his art: sketches of anything that took his fancy, and could possibly be converted to miniature form.

Art was such a lovely thing. It didn't imitate life; it superceded it.

The day called for an expedition, and Mariku answered it. This watercolour spring afternoon, he took his usual seat at the Usagi Kissaten, by the window where he could see the world going by. It was a depressing sight. Nevertheless, he ordered a long black, pulled his sketchbook out of his beloved satchel, and placed a sharpened pencil to his lips expectantly.

The world was full of ugly people. Thin, gaudy women with sucked in cheekbones. The low, sullen brows of workmen. Sickly flesh constricted by waistbands and hemlines. And everywhere, _everywhere_, disgusting crude fingers that would destroy but never create.

_Ugh_, Mariku thought savagely, _I wish they didn't exist._ He raised the cup to his lips and drank deeply. It looked as if today would be another fruitless day. Would he ever be inspired by a living being again?

"Sir. Sir! You've forgotten to pay your bill." There was a tone of accusation in the voice.

Curious café patrons turned their eyes to a thin teenage boy in a forest-green coat, who already had one foot out the door. He composed himself with a shuddering breath. "N-no I didn't."

The manager walked up, the bill pinched in his hand. "I'm sorry, you're mistaken. I believe we've had this problem before as well."

"Listen, you don't know what you are talking about-"

Mariku folded and interlocked his slim fingers. A smirk drifted across his face. Let it be known he was a lover of drama and the misfortune of others. He didn't care.

The boy swathed in green turned to push the door open forcibly, but the manager seized his arm. Several people gasped. The boy tugged away and his hood fell backwards.

God he was beautiful.

In a moment it was as if all the ugliness in the world had been extinguished by this beautiful, beautiful boy. He was so pale he might have been carved from a block of ice, from his frozen hands to his snowy hair. Plump little lips and innocent dark eyes, oh oh. He was…everything. He was the reason artists painted, lyricists composed, sculptors took to the clay.

He was a living doll.

And dolls didn't bother themselves with mundane things like _bills_.

"Listen!" Mariku surprised himself with his forthrightness. "Whatever the bill is, I'll pay for it."

The boy smiled, and Mariku's heart sang. To have discovered such a child in such an ordinary place! The manager stepped towards Mariku and slapped the bill across his table. Perfunctorily, he said, "Nine hundred and eighty yen."

What a piffling amount! And some manners wouldn't go amiss. But Mariku pulled some crumpled bills and a few coins out of his wallet, and slapped them equally as hard on the table. Feeling pleased with himself, he looked towards the door.

The boy was nowhere to be seen.

"What- where did he go?" Mariku gasped.

The manager laughed. "Owes you some money, does he?"

"Just answer the question!" Mariku's stress levels were rising rapidly. He pressed his fingers to his temples. That boy, that _boy_ – where was he?

"I think– he went outside," a woman answered earnestly from another table.

Mariku rose from his seat. "Which way?" he demanded.

"I'm not sure, sorry."

For the first time in his life Mariku stuffed the sketchbook inside the satchel roughly. The pages seemed to cry in the process. He forgot about the pencil, and the half-empty coffee cup, and almost his black coat. He ran to the door, his satchel thumping against his side annoyingly.

"Hey! You forgot _your_ bill now!"

It was all Mariku could do not to strangle the manager. He yanked out a thousand yen bill and let it flutter to the ground. The clanging door signaled his exit.

* * *

What did one do when they were looking for a missing doll?

"Hello officer, I've lost a doll in a green coat, and he has the loveliest, most striking features ever, so it should be quite simple to find him. He walked out of Usagi Kissaten around one."

_Tch._ Not in this lifetime. Mariku had a great distrust of the police force. Or more accurately, dislike. He knew what the law had been, but he still couldn't help but feel some great injustice that those commoners – the press, angered nobodies, yes the police – had put their filthy hands all over him and tainted him. No, Mariku should have been wiser than to get caught.

He shook the thought from his head and wondered where to start looking. A quick glance to his left, right, yielded nothing. _Damn it_, the boy could've wandered into any of the stores lining the street. Mariku bit his lip.

"You there!" he addressed a person in chicken costume advertising some sort of burger (probably avian). "Have you seen a boy go past in a green coat? He had white hair, or maybe he was wearing a hood over it."

"Uh…" The chicken scratched its head and flapped one wing half-heartedly. "I don't know, mister. I've seen a lot of people walking up this street."

Mariku turned away. The boy was not the kind of person you would forget seeing.

"Oh, hold on a minute!" Mariku glanced back to see the chicken looking sheepish. Quite a feat. "You– you're–"

But Mariku was already some distance away.

"–the dollmaker," the chicken trailed off.

Night was falling in Kyoto. Stars blossomed across the sky as it became a velvety, rich black – no that was just bullshit, there was too much light pollution for that, Protocol be damned. It seemed like Mariku had asked the entire city if they had seen the boy, and they all spewed out the same predictable answer. "No." Fifty percent of the time followed by, "Aren't you the dollmaker?"

_Yes, you fool._

Now he was weary. He hadn't eaten anything all day (two coffees didn't count). He thought that the urgency fuelling his search might keep him going, but instead he felt as if his legs might give away. He – didn't – want – to – give – up.

And he wasn't going to. He would just rest a little while.

Ten minutes should be enough...

* * *

Mariku lay in bed for four and a half torturous hours before finally drifting off. His sleep was fitful; he cried out in the night. Behind his lidded eyes he saw blood and cold steel. He woke up while the sun was still weak. As usual, cold morning reminded him that his dreams were about as frightening as a stroll in the park (for a man accustomed to cutting people open, perhaps) and that he was being foolish. Then his mind turned to more pressing matters.

The boy. He didn't even know his name. The vision of the beauty, which had been so strong yesterday, was already fading with worrying speed. Mariku swore, and threw the covers to his side.

Did the boy live nearby? Surely he would've seen him around. But perhaps not – the city was so large and so crowded.

The vision kept fading as he irritably pulled on rumpled jeans and a shirt with the buttons done up all wrong. Usually immaculately presented, he didn't care enough today. The vision faded as he made himself a coffee (it didn't seem he had learnt anything from his fast yesterday), and as he threw the cup in the dishwasher and missed. It faded as he let out a string of expletives and cleaned up the shards.

He heard a light knock on the door – a rarity. He preferred not to have visitors. Mariku tossed the shards in the bin before going to see who it was.

"Hey, Doc," came the greeting. It was the blonde boy who lived in the floor below, and whom Mariku occasionally talked (stiltedly) to on the lift. "I heard you were frantic yesterday looking for somebody."

"Hnn." Mariku pursed his lips. He made him sound like an overprotective parent. "That's right."

"By the way, you look real messed up today, if you don't mind my saying so, but _anyway_. You should've tried closer to home."

Mariku raised an eyebrow.

"Bakura Yurei at four-four, that's your man."

_Ghost_. How fitting. Although that wasn't the word Mariku wouldn't have chosen.

"Are you sure–" Mariku struggled to remember the boy's name. He only recalled it was some ridiculous English one. Joseph? Joe? "Well, are you sure that's him?"

"White hair, green jacket or something like that, right? Well I see him often enough. Never takes the lift, always takes the stairs though. Why were you looking for him, Doc? Did you finally notice him after all this time and it was love at first sight?"

"Don't be absurd," Mariku snapped. He grabbed a pair of shoes from the rack and hurriedly pulled them on."

"No need for that attitude, Doc. Are you going to go out looking like _that_? Well, your funeral I suppose."

Annoyingly he accompanied him to the lift.

"I can find him _myself_."

"Boy, you sure can be an asshole when you put your mind to it. I'm only heading back to my apartment." He looked at him sideways as he crossed his arms. "The world doesn't revolve around _you_, you know. And you could at least be a bit grateful I bothered helping you."

"You shouldn't help people just so you can solicit their thanks to boost your own self esteem," Mariku shot back. His charming facade seemed to have deserted him in the past few days, and this irritation piled on top of all the other ones he had. How was he supposed to act like a bearable human being? ...Ah, it probably didn't matter, it was so tiring pretending anyway.

Joseph, or whoever he was, looked at him as if he were some dog shit on the bottom of his sneaker, further infuriating Mariku. He stepped off the lift as the doors pinged open and didn't look back.

Now that he was gone, Mariku had the entire lift for his ruminating, and nobody to pretend to even if he wanted. He leaned back against the mirrored wall and crossed his arms. His mind drifted elsewhere.

_Who are you, Bakura Yurei?_

No – that wasn't it. Mariku stared at the lift ceiling as if it would answer his question.

What _are you, Bakura Yurei?_

* * *

**A/N: **So you made it this far! You're not going to leave me now, are you? You have no idea how much I wanted Mariku to address the chicken guy: "You there! Strange person!" But that wasn't even his line in the first place I suppose...


	2. History of a Ghost

_Mariku is an infinitely egotistical dollmaker with a violent past. Searching for a 'living doll' who one day captures his imagination, he instead finds Bakura Yurei, and is confronted by stories and emotions that threaten to overwhelm him._

**Rating:**T**  
Genre:**I don't even know. Mystery? Angst? Romance?**  
Disclaimer:**All Yu-Gi-Oh! characters belong to Takahashi Kazuki, etc.  
**Warnings:** Bad language thus far.

**A/N:** Thank you to everybody who reviewed so far – I love reading what you have to say! I have made some minor edits.

The beast stirs beneath the ocean.

This is AU. This is not their universe. This is **Doll Verse**.

* * *

**o2: History of a Ghost**

It was easy to tell when Mariku was distracted. His hands were usually gloved when he left the house; at the very least he had a small bottle of sanitizer on him. And here he was now, pressing the glowing 'four' on the lift panel absent-mindedly every two seconds. Who knew what kinds of bacteria there were oozing all over that button.

_Bakura Yurei_ _at four-four_. The more he thought about it, the more it brought a smile to his face. A beautiful, unearthly ghost living at the number of death.

He stepped outside as the lift doors opened. He scanned the corridor, and saw 'four' at the end, to his right. With a trembling hand he tried to still his heart – _that won't work, Mariku, your heart's_inside _your ribcage_ – and walked towards the apartment.

He pressed the doorbell, and heard a soft chime in response. Suddenly Mariku became aware of just how poorly dressed he was. He checked his zip wasn't undone (it wasn't), his hair wasn't knotty (he ran through it with his fingers) and he had buttoned his shirt correctly – shit! That would take ages!

He heard the door click open softly just as he finished with the last button. Scarcely daring to breathe, Mariku looked into the eyes – of the wrong person. Or maybe it was the right person, but he looked all wrong. From a distance, there was little difference. But closer up, it was obvious that this boy was leaner, and meaner. The innocent brown eyes had become suspicious. The coat was replaced by a ratty t-shirt, which hung almost awkwardly off a thin frame. It rivaled Mariku's outfit in the untidy stakes.

"Yeah?" Yurei murmured lowly.

"B-bakura Yurei?" Mariku asked uncertainly. _God he sounded so needy and pathetic. _

Yurei leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. "Do I know you?"

"I– that is–"

The boy unconsciously rubbed a hole on the thigh of his jeans. When Mariku failed to produce a coherent answer, he barked, "Listen, I don't have all day."

"_Listen, you don't know what you are talking about."_

"I saw you at Usagi Kissaten yesterday," Mariku blurted out.

Yurei's eyes narrowed, and Mariku sensed that he was going to accuse him of being a stalker or a pervert, or something along those lines.

"The fuck? I never go there."

Mariku paused. Damn it. Even though he was becoming surer and surer that this Bakura Yurei could not be the Boy (whom he had started capitalizing in his mind), the resemblance was uncanny.

Maybe he was just embarrassed about the unpaid bill.

"Don't worry, I took care of the bill," Mariku said confidentially.

Yurei's eyes widened. "You– you're one of them! Man, you depraved fuck!"

Mariku was rarely bewildered, but he stood there blinking foolishly like a deer caught in headlights. He couldn't understand why Yurei had responded so heatedly, and in any case–

"You got the wrong man, alright? Don't come knocking on my fucking door again!"

Yurei was about to slam the door when Mariku stuck his foot in. There was definitely something wrong here. "_That_ was a strange reaction. If I've got the wrong person, then who's the right one?"

The door slowly inched open again. Yurei's hand was clenching the handle so tightly, his knuckles were whitened.

"My _brother_–" he hissed. "My _brother_ is an _embarrassment_ to this family and fuck me if I will ever be mistaken for him again. If I gave a shit about him, I would tell you to stay the fuck away from him, but since I don't, it's your lucky day."

"Your brother?" Mariku asked hoarsely.

"Yes, Detective Dumbass!" Yurei snarled. "Now get the fuck out!"

It was a long-shot, a never-never question, one he didn't expect an answer to. Yet desperation drove Mariku to ask: "Where can I find him?"

Yurei looked at him with the deadest eyes ever. He pressed the door shut, suddenly drained of all his anger, and for some reason Mariku let him.

* * *

It was those eyes. They had cast a hypnotic spell on him, placed his mind under a slumber. Mariku had always had an irrational belief that the eyes were the key to the soul. One, by the way, that was totally incompatible with his scientific upbringing. So many things were these days.

Perhaps it was something to do with the mysterious scars under his own eyes…

In that moment his two sides argued for dominance. A mournful, childlike voice cried that he should give Yurei privacy; the fiercer voice demanded he knock on the door again. For some reason, that little voice won out this time. Mariku retreated.

Not that he gave up such easily. Now that he had a wisp of information, tiny as it was, Mariku was determined to milk it.

A cursory internet search revealed that Bakura Yurei was quite the gifted writer. He had won prizes in the past for his short fiction. This, Mariku supposed as he scrolled down the page, was probably the reason he was heading to Oxford in the fall on scholarship. Mariku propped his head with one ringed hand as he regarded Yurei's expressionless portrait. He might really be something, if he wasn't overshadowed by his brother.

It seemed as if there were only two people in the world who knew about the brother, for there was no mention of him. In fact, there was little about _Yurei._He didn't have a blog, nor did he seem to use social networking sites. This pleased Mariku more than it should have. He personally couldn't fathom Ameblos or Yaplogs. Did they make people feel more cherished or popular? He'd heard of the 'internet famous', and a more loathsome and more pointless band of creatures he could not imagine. Obviously Yurei didn't need such sentiment.

Mariku yawned and pressed the last link. It was the homepage for a nearby private high school, Heiwa Gakuen, and it looked as if Yurei was one of its star pupils. Come to think of it, Joseph had mentioned that school once or twice. Mariku folded his laptop shut, pushed it to the side, and leaned his head on the cool glass desk. _Now here was a lead._ Why had he been so rude to Joseph that day?

His eyes drifted from left to right. His prized dolls sat in neat rows on wooden shelves poking out of the walls. Each one had seemed to look at him with trust when he had crafted them, but now they stared obstinately ahead like strangers. Mariku had tried to sketch the Boy in between spells on the computer, but he kept coming up with Yurei: those narrowed eyes and sharp face.

With a noise of annoyance he swept the papers off the table and into the bin.

* * *

Joey was entertaining a house guest when he heard the doorbell chime. He left Honda in the living room to beat his defenseless character silly on the Playstation 3. As he walked away, he heard a digital shriek of pain.

Dr. Himesaki stood at the door, a small smile decorating his face. Joey snorted. "Well, if it isn't the Doc. Come crawling back? I bet Bakura rejected you, didn't he?"

The doctor looked slightly humiliated. "I- I'm really sorry about yesterday, Joseph. I wasn't quite myself. My father– something happened to him–"

_Yes! What was it now – seventeen years ago? Ha, very amusing, Dr. Himesaki!_

Joey paled. "Oh my god. I'm really sorry, Doc, I had no idea. Come inside. I've got a guest, but it won't be any trouble. Are you okay?"

"Yes, it's– but don't worry about it, Joseph, I'm sure everything will be fine." Dr. Himesaki had such a winning smile. Confident, yet tragic.

"God, I really am sorry, Doc."

It was the sort of smile that should have earned him an Academy award. Joey had his back turned when it vanished. Mariku briefly pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He did _not_ need somebody else hanging on right now. This guest, whoever the hell they were, had better know something about Yurei as well.

"So what's on your mind, anyway?" Joey asked as he led him to the kitchen. It held a wooden dining table, several wood cabinets and a wooden bar. They absorbed the glow of the sun streaming through the windows, taking on a homely, golden sheen. Mariku could imagine god having a kitchen like this – if such a thing existed.

Joey grabbed a lilac pot decorated with rabbits, and poured him some tea. "Sorry, it's lukewarm. Um, did you want to talk about your father?"

"That's alright." Mariku accepted the teacup, once again the picture of propriety. "No, I don't really want to talk about that at all." _No you don't._ "But there is something else I wanted to ask you about."

"Eh, really?" Joey ducked his head respectfully. "Okay, your dad's a closed subject, that's okay. So…what is it, then?"

Mariku's voice dropped to a confidential whisper. "It _is_ about Bakura Yurei actually. He acted very strangely when I spoke to him yesterday. I thought you might know why. After all, don't you go to school together? Heiwa?"

"No, Doc." Joey scratched his head and tried not to look surprised. "But Honda does, I think they might even be in the same class." He turned around on his barstool and hollered. "Honda! Get out here for a minute! I wanna ask you something!"

Mariku's eyes lit up and took on an almost feverish light. He quickly composed himself as Honda, he gathered, walked into the kitchen. Honda wore a dark jacket and dark jeans, and had a strange pointy brown hairdo. It reminded Mariku of a rhinoceros. Not that his own hairstyle was particularly tame.

"What?" He noticed Mariku sitting on a stool. "Oh, hi. You must be Jounouchi's neighbour upstairs. He's mentioned you a couple of times. Himesaki-san, right? The dollmaker?"

_Jounouchi?_Mariku glanced at Joey momentarily, and then nodded. "Pleased to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too. I'm Honda Hiroto. Me and my girlfriend went to see your exhibit the other day, it was really something else."

Was that a compliment or not?

"So, Honda," Joey interrupted. "The story goes that Bakura Yurei was kind of a bitch to Doc – I call him that, he's a real smart guy, doctorate at twenty-three and all – and we just wanna know why."

Honda looked mildly impressed at Mariku's credentials. "You mean, Bakura-kun? In my class?"

"Well gee, how many others do you know?" Joey rolled his eyes.

Honda chose to ignore the sarcasm. He pulled out a barstool beside his friend and sat down. "Aren't you used to Bakura-kun's behaviour by now?"

"What do you mean?" Mariku asked, curious.

"Well, you two practically _live_ with him."

"This is the first time I've met him," Mariku admitted, at the same time Joey said, "I see the guy sometimes and he seems okay to me."

"He's usually pretty cold…but when he's an outright asshole you probably did something to piss him off. Pardon my language." Mariku waved it off. "What were you talking to him about, Himesaki-san?" Honda poured himself a cup of tea as well.

"Well, I did mention his brother–"

"Bad idea," Honda said almost instantly.

"Wha- why?" Both Joey and Mariku stared at Honda.

"Nobody mentions _him_. We don't even know his name." Mariku's heart sank at that. "I don't think Bakura-kun has even seen him since his parents split up. That's what I heard anyway. Bakura-kun stayed with his mother, and his brother went off with his father to Egypt."

"Egypt?" _Egypt._ Mariku knew warmth and cold at the same time. His homeland. The country he hadn't returned to since he was ten.

"His father was an Egyptologist. Mother a businesswoman, well-off." Inside Mariku's head, cymbals were crashing now. The word Egyptologist meant something and he couldn't understand what. "Anyway, they're both dead now. You'd think it would bring two brothers closer, but…"

"That is some crazy shit," Joey intoned, unnecessarily.

The cymbals faded as suddenly as they had come, but now Mariku felt something akin to empathy. He tried to squash it down. "But then– who does he live with now?"

"Bakura-kun? Officially there's some guardian, but I've never seen them, and he _is_ pretty rich – well he lives here anyway." Honda laughed good-naturedly. "I don't know much more about him. He mainly keeps to himself. He's that kind of guy."

"Like you then, Doc. Without all the emotional baggage."

Mariku drained his cup so quickly he almost choked. "Ah. Well, if that's everything, then I have to be heading off now. Thanks, Honda-kun, Joseph. That was really helpful."

"Joseph?" Honda spluttered. "Are you still calling yourself that, Jounouchi?"

"Awh, shut up, Honda! It's _Joey_! And I told you, it's sophisticated, dickweed!"

Mariku let himself out as the two continued to bicker. He rested against the closed door and exhaled. His hands were shaking, and the corridor seemed dark and miserable compared to the warmth of the kitchen. He couldn't believe that such a simple conversation could have fucked him up like that, even if was to do with somebody as amazing as the Boy.

God. How the hell was he supposed to find the Boy if the only person who knew a thing about him wouldn't say a fucking word?

* * *

**Your reviews give Dr. Himesaki life.** This Doll Verse is very twisty-turny, bet you don't know what's around the corner! But have a guess and tell me. If I like your idea, I might even steal it.


	3. Proposal

_Mariku is an infinitely egotistical dollmaker with a violent past. Searching for a 'living doll' who one day captures his imagination, he instead finds Bakura Yurei, and is confronted by stories and emotions that threaten to overwhelm him._

**Rating:**T**  
Genre:**Mystery, suspense, romance, angst, all you could ever wish for.**  
Disclaimer:**Copyright law disfavours me.**  
Warnings:** Swearing (so far). OH NO!

**A/N:**It's been a while! I swear to god there are so many twists and mysteries in this story even I can't keep track of them. I thank my dear reviewers: _Anreyla_, _BlackxCinderella_, _Jiangshi_, _Shantih_, and _the upward glance_. You make me feel happy writing.

Believe it or not, I do intend to see this to its end.

This is AU. This is not their universe. This is **Doll Verse**.

* * *

**o3: Proposal**

Patience was something to be learned in the medical profession. If you had never had much of it to begin with, that was too bad. A hospital had to be efficient, to be sure, but a hasty incision or a rushed diagnosis could mean death.

_Or a malpractice suit,_ Mariku mused. As if he had ever come close to such a thing. The man was – had been – a damn wonder in the operating room. His charm had been so formulaic, it was fascinating nobody had noticed. A reassuring word to the patient, perhaps a quick chat with the medical students beforehand, pep talk with his colleagues. The real business would begin when silence fell across the room. He often frightened others with his quick pace – but it was an awed sort of fright.

If he dissected the Boy, he thought he would find a soul full of pure and shining light. But he would never do such a thing. Blemish such a pretty face? Spill a drop of his blood? Mariku sighed and stroked a pencil across the grey face smiling innocently back at him. Soft and rounded and not-at-all-sharp.

His doctoring days might be over, but he could be patient. Patient for Yurei. Yurei was his patient. He'd show patience for his patient. Mariku imagined that the boy was gripped by a rare disease, and the only cure was to wait for it to subside. How long would that take?

* * *

_CAVE COLLAPSE KILLS TWO_. _A tragic accident in Gilf Kebir has killed two and left three with serious injuries. Takashi Bakura, 38, and Soichiro Tanaka, 47, were among a group of archaeologists who were well known in the scientific community. Soichiro had been about to celebrate his forty-eighth birthday in two weeks._

_The group had been excavating in an area of the cave when it suddenly collapsed. Rescuers were able to save three people. Bakura and Tanaka both died from serious head injuries._

"_Professors Bakura and Tanaka will be greatly missed," one spokesperson for the National Research Centre said. "They made such great contributions to the field of Egyptology."_

_Police have attributed the cave collapse to a natural degradation of the interior walls over time, with additional damage caused by the body heat of tourists. The cave has been closed off to visitors._

_Tanaka's family were said to be "absolutely devastated", while Bakura's family could not be reached for comment._

_

* * *

_

Invisible hands gliding across piano keys, the opening bars of a soft ballad: the doorbell was chiming. Mariku glanced up from the computer screen, feeling as if he had just lifted his head from a vat of concrete. His knowledge of Arabic was probably on par with a four-year-old, and the online translators seemed half as skilled as that.

Who the fuck was it? He didn't have time for this. An irrational anger rose in Mariku, but he suppressed it. Maybe he'd ordered something off the internet and forgotten about it. (He bought far too many mawkish things on a whim, which just ended up in the rubbish.) Or perhaps an old colleague had come to make awkward conversation with him in the hopes of brushing…that incident…aside.

_Or it could be Joey or Honda!_ Mariku slapped the computer shut, excited, and ran out of the study.

"Yes?" he asked eagerly as he yanked the door open. He saw who was there before him, and his mouth dropped open. _Oh_.

For a foolish moment, Mariku dared to believe that the Boy was standing in the doorway.

But of course it wasn't. Yurei looked back at him with a carefully vacant expression. He was wearing a light cotton t-shirt and drainpipe jeans that puckered, torn and open-mouthed, at the knees. Mariku frowned. While the Boy had been elegant in his slimness, Yurei looked as if he needed to be stuffed in a sack of corn and fattened up.

"So you've decided to tell me about him then?" Mariku asked at the same time as Yurei blurted out, "Tell me everything!"

They regarded each other warily.

"_Tell me._"

"Seeing as this time _I'm_ the one who can shut _you_ out, I don't think you're in any position to order me around." Although Mariku had no intention of doing such a thing; his heart was leaping in excitement.

Yurei swore under his breath, before looking back up at Mariku. "Asshole. I don't have to answer to you."

Even though he just had.

"Yurei-san."

"_Bakura_."

"Right. Bakura-san." _I can be patient._ "Come in."

Bakura stood motionless – _somebody_ clearly hadn't planned this far – and a tiny frown wrinkled his lips. Finally he acquiesced, and stepped through the doorway.

Against his will, his face lit up in awe. "Ah…"

Mariku occupied the entirety of the top floor. Partly because it meant that there wouldn't be people trundling about outside all the time visiting his neighbours, but also because of the feeling of being above everybody else it gave him. His apartment was easily the most expensive in the entire block, if not the ward, and Kyoto was hardly known for cheap housing. Not bad for an ex-criminal (or was one always a criminal?), even if he had commanded an impressive salary before the whole mess.

The apartment itself was filled with various dolls, on shelves, beside vases, strewn carelessly across the floor in Mariku's more livid moments. They were made of wood, of clay, of porcelain, each with big long-lashed eyes. Some of them sat with their arms around woodland creatures (not that he liked animals – it just looked right), others with friends. So many dolls! Yet one did not feel cramped. The ceilings were high with exposed wooden beams, and the rooms were sparsely, but attractively, furnished.

Bakura followed Mariku into the apartment, stalking a few steps after him. He quickly wiped away any trace of wonder from his face, and addressed the blond. "You. What's your name then?"

"Dr. Himesaki. But you can call me Mariku." He motioned towards a set of black leather sofas surrounding a glass coffee table. "We can sit here, if you want."

"Right." Bakura seemed unimpressed by the title. He dropped onto a sofa and watched Mariku as he walked towards the kitchen. "No tea or weak shit like that."

Mariku nodded silently without turning around, and Bakura was satisfied. The man gone, he allowed his eyes to flicker across his surroundings. There was one doll lying on top of a cabinet, its face obscured by a shock of sandy hair, and swathed in some sort of purple fabric. It was the only one in the room that was completely covered.

Mariku returned with a bottle of Hennessy. "Strong enough for you?"

"It's too sweet," Bakura replied, the doll still in the corner of his eyesight. "Try again."

Mariku looked for a moment as if he would protest, but Bakura watched with some satisfaction as he duly returned with some promised liquor. He would allow him this: the doctor walked with certainty. Soft, steady creaks on the wooden floor.

Mariku set the glass tumblers down on the coffee table and twisted the bottle open. He inhaled sharply as Bakura snatched it from his hand and held it to his lips, drinking deeply. Joey couldn't have known him that well if he thought he was such a nice person.

"Bakura-san!"

"My tolerance is unbelievable." Bakura dismissed him with a wave of the hand. "Alcohol. We have it. Now cut the bullshit niceties. What the fuck did you do to Ryou?"

"Who?" Mariku asked as soon as he realized Ryou _must_be, _had to_ be – the Boy. No, Mariku thought with giddy pleasure, he would never call him the Boy again. He had a name. Oh, _Ryou_. What a lovely, drawn-out name, so soft and lilting.

"My brother, you fucker." Bakura yanked him out of fantasy land with an irritable sigh. "Not that I give a shit, but my mother seems to. So I thought, maybe on the off-chance you are a person in regular contact with him…" He raised a thin eyebrow.

_Mother?_ Either Bakura was keeping his skeletons locked in the closet, or Honda had been mistaken. Mariku decided to ignore the issue for now. "Oh– I only saw Ryou-san that one time in passing."

"No need to lie, I'm well aware of his tricks," Bakura said enigmatically. He took another drink.

"What are you talking about? I told you, it was at Usagi Kissaten. He didn't pay his bill, so I did it for him. It was around nine hundred yen. A coffee."

"Meeting up for a coffee?" Revulsion quirked his lips. "Is that what you call it now?"

"We didn't meet up as such. I only saw him when he was being harassed by the manager."

"For his coffee bill." Amusement.

"That's what I've been trying to say, in clear Japanese." Mariku didn't want to lose his calm, but quite frankly the boy was giving him a headache. He couldn't follow him at all. "How difficult is it to understand? I'm not _lying_ to you. I want to find him as much as you do."

Bakura, maybe surprised by the terse words, did not speak for a while. The reddish eyes seemed troubled... At last, he breathed in sharply. "I- I see."

"What's the matter?"

"It's nothing." But his slumped shoulders said otherwise.

"If something happened to Ryou-san–"

"What do you care?"

Mariku was taken aback. "I–"

"What, so you came around the other day, hoping I was him so you could get a quick fuck?" Bakura's eyes flashed dangerously.

Mariku's mouth parted slightly. He didn't shock easily – but where the hell had that come from? "I wouldn't- Do you even know what you're saying? What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe half the things _I_have to say about your precious Ryou–"

"What the fuck are you?" Mariku's anger flared. It was getting harder to control these days. "You're a pathetic excuse for a brother."

"Maybe!" Bakura leaned forward, hands on his knees. His smile was a knife gash on his face. "But he isn't exactly in the running for sibling of the year either. So you keep your fucking high nose out of our business."

There was a pregnant pause. The only sound was the awkward clicking of Mariku's joints as he folded one knee across the other.

"_You_ came in here asking for my help."

Yet another silence.

Drawn out.

Bakura rubbed his eyes. Sighed irritably. Rolled his eyes expressively, and sighed once more. "You know what, you're right. And for some reason, you seem to really care about the miserable fucker."

"He's a doll," Mariku blurted suddenly.

"What?"

His anger died. Just like that. Mariku laughed, unsure why he felt embarrassed. "Look all around you. I'm a dollmaker – I make dolls, that's what I do – and Ryou-san, he was just– I don't even know how to put it into words."

"A doll."

Mariku ran a hand through his hair. Dolls – they were one of those harmless things people had an irrational fear of. Although critics were generally praising of Mariku's work, he had encountered his share of panicked laypeople during his (so far) brief career as dollmaker. You could laugh at them, but honestly… Ah. He wouldn't be surprised if Bakura was one of them.

To his surprise, Bakura merely tipped his head to one side, surveying him as if through new glasses. "Is that so? You're far more interesting than I gave you credit for, Dr. Himesaki. I suppose I should've expected as much from someone who creates such exquisite dolls."

_What?_ Again, Bakura Yurei was unerring in provoking Mariku. Was this the same expletive-spouting boy that had walked into the apartment? Where the hell had this new personality come from?

Bakura interlocked his fingers. "Which is why I'm surprised at just how completely wrong you are. He is just the most thoroughly ugly person I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Why anybody would describe him as dollish is beyond me."

"If you can't stand him so much, then why are you looking for him?"

Bakura huffed, all traces of articulacy gone. "Didn't you listen to me? Because my mother bloody told me to."

"_Did_ she?" Mariku asked accusingly.

A yellowish glint returned to Bakura's eyes. "You don't know anything about me!"

And Mariku realized something. They had something in common. Those inexplicable bouts of rage. They came and went like a transient visitor. He was quite clever about disguising them; often people didn't realise when he was mad. Sometimes _he_ didn't even realise.

Despite this, he had always been a little afraid of that rage, because even though he knew it was ridiculous – not to mention impossible – to be happy all the time, if you were consumed by your passions, you could do something really horrible. The incident? No. _Worse things than that_.

What was the worst thing Bakura had done in a grip of rage? Killed his mother? His father? They were both dead. Who could really say whether it was a cave collapse or whatever the fuck? (And now it was clear his mind had derailed from its tracks.)

Why the hell was that even the first thing he thought of? Did he have some latent obsession with death? Involuntarily Mariku's lips twitched. He needed to stop overanalyzing things.

"You're right." he spread his hands out: a gesture of peace. "I don't know anything about you. So why don't you tell me about yourself?"

"Get fucked."

"Well, if you insist." Wondering how Bakura would react, Mariku stood up and sauntered towards the door. He pulled down his coat from the rack and started putting it on.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" Bakura clumsily scrambled up and followed him.

"Taking your advice, Bakura-san." Mariku smiled at the boy innocently. "It _has_ been a while... But quasi-fame has its benefits. It's hard to believe, but quite a few people find you sexually attractive if you have your name written in the city's art guide pamphlets."

_And I hear that some of the crazier ones just adore a man with a criminal record!_

"Okay!" Bakura snapped. He pulled Mariku's coat off roughly, and the blond let him. He watched as the coat was thrown on the floor. "_Fine_. You're not going anywhere."

They stood now, facing each other. He was so close Mariku could smell the alcohol on his breath. (It was actually kind of sweet, and he would have mentioned this if he had felt like embarrassing the other.)

"I'm sorry, Bakura-san," he eventually breathed out. "I was just fooling around with you. I really do want to know."

Bakura met his eyes; _gauging_ him. Satisfied, he began to speak. "Ryou and I are not on the best of terms. But my mother – _yes_, my mother, I have one believe it or not… He was supposed to call her. He does that every day. But– she told me that he hasn't in the past few days… She thinks he's in _trouble_…" A barked laugh at such sentimentality. "And I, the sucker, big brother, have to go look for him!"

Mariku took some time to absorb the information. _Mother mother mother_, sounded his heart in singsong, but again he ignored it. "You look about the same age."

"As twins do." Bakura brushed the topic aside. "Anyway, as you can see, I've had fuck all success."

"Where was the last place you saw him?" Suddenly, Mariku was adrift in a dream again. Where might Ryou frequent? He could see him in the Louvre, lips curved with his smiling twin Lisa. The Stadel, with sorrow sweet as Mary's. Perhaps – Mariku scarcely dared hope – he'd traced his fingers upon a porcelain-cheeked child at Mariku's exhibit.

"The last time?"

Mariku looked hopeful. Not stupidly hopeful; he had the feeling that the boy despised that sort of thing.

Bakura kept gazing into his eyes. It was as if he wasn't aware of what he was doing. He shook his head imperceptibly, and then said nothing for a few moments. "It's…oh, it's been years. This is useless. Listen, I guess – never mind. Just forget about all this, and everything about this."

"Don't be like that. I want to help you, Bakura-san."

"No, really-" Bakura turned to go. He was about to pick up Mariku's coat and put it on, when he realized, and dropped it like a burning coal. His face – it should've been burning too, but it was as pale as ever. "I should leave. It's nothing to do with you. I don't even know if it's anything to do with me. Just pretend I was never here."

Mariku sighed heavily. "Look at me."

Bakura paused.

"Look at me, Bakura-san."

The boy turned to him grudgingly.

"There's nothing to be gained from lying to you," Mariku said calmly. "So why not the truth? Your brother is art. Pure and simple. And I am an artist. I have to make sure you find him, and perhaps for my own selfish reasons. But there's the reason nonetheless."

"He's _art_?"

"He is."

"And you _have_ to find him?"

"I do."

"_Really_?" There was such an ugly sneer curling about the words, but Bakura's lips were set in an inoffensive straight line. Perhaps he had imagined it.

"Well, yes. This is a fairytale. I've fallen in love with somebody I know next to nothing about." Mariku smiled to himself. "And he looks just like a storybook prince as well."

He didn't mean _in love_, but he hoped that Bakura understood. The white-haired boy was twirling an invisible pen between his fingers.

"_Storybook prince_," he unconsciously muttered under his breath as he spun the pen round and round. He looked back up.

"Really?" he repeated. Softly.

"Just tell me what you need," Mariku answered immediately.

"I need _you_to…" He faltered. "… I need you…"

All of a sudden, the blonde felt his spine tremble, and he quickly straightened himself. Stilled _but not still_ he watched as Bakura's mind tripped over his words. Somehow, he knew exactly what he was spelling. _Storybook prince. Just like a storybook prince._

He continued to watch as it broke with the words and chose another path. His eyes oddly dancing, Bakura finally looked at him and said:

"We should look for him together."

* * *

**A/N:**If you've watched _The English Patient_ (I haven't), you might have heard of the Cave of Swimmers. Tourists like to go there and chip bits off the cave walls and splash water on the rock art and leave their litter everywhere… It's a national monument, fuckers.

Come drop me a note! This time, I wonder if you know what Bakura's thinking in exchange where Mariku goes all truthful on his ass.

Aside from that, I adore constructive criticism. Especially if it's to point out I got my facts wrong, or because any of the characters are acting inconsistently. (And yes, I actually do take heed of it and edit accordingly. Quelle horror!)

Until next chapter.


	4. Searching in the Wrong Places

_Mariku is an infinitely egotistical dollmaker with a violent past. Searching for a 'living doll' who one day captures his imagination, he instead finds Bakura Yurei, and is confronted by stories and emotions that threaten to overwhelm him._

**Rating: **T**  
Genre: **Mystery and suspense and romance and psychological musings – delicious!**  
Disclaimer: **No.  
**Warnings:** Language, violence.

**A/N:** Sorry for the infrequent updates. I hate writing chaptered fics, but Mariku might just come kill me if his tale's not told out. If you have more than one email in your alerts, I edited the other chapters slightly. Your feedback. I thrive upon it.

Love goes out to: _Creative Cherry, Croquant, hahahehehoho_ and _the upward glance._

This is AU. This is not their universe. This is **Doll Verse**.

* * *

**o4: Searching in the Wrong Places**

"_We should look for him together__!"_

_Her fingers dug__ into the soft flesh of his arm. He twisted away, a look of revulsion on his face._ _"Are you crazy? It's completely black outside! There could be snakes, or scorpions–"_

"_Oh Malik!" She shook her head._

"–_or knowing his luck, he'll probably run right into a truck full of tomb robbers! Honestly, mother, you're so _stupid_. This isn't the romantic age of the kings! They carry guns, and they kill people! Face it – he hasn't been back for hours. He's probably de–"_

_There was a loud crack__ as his back struck the stone wall. He looked upwards, and saw her reddened hand shaking by her side. Her face was hidden by her hair._

"_Y-you're wrong," she declared. Avoiding his stunned eyes, she turned and left the room. He could hear her light footsteps echoing from the corridor. Any moment now, she'd ascend the stairs from the dark into the darkness._

_In the corner the candle flickered as a moth played by its light.__ He sank down and folded his arms around his knees, alone again. _

_It was as if_

time had stopped.

Mariku stared at Bakura, with his mouth slightly open.

"What's wrong?" The boy sounded almost aggressive. "I thought you were worried about him too. You're just like my mother," he tacked on unnecessarily.

"I- yes, of course." Finally comprehension dawned on him, and Mariku nodded. Quickly. This was the best thing that could have happened. It was a miracle. Mariku, as a rule of thumb, did not believe in such things, but this was simply too much. To have seen Ryou, to then have his brother live in the same apartment block, to have his brother _ask_ him to help find him–

It would have been a greater miracle had Ryou simply waited for Mariku to pay the bill, and then offered to come back to his apartment to make art and history, but that was probably asking too much.

"To tell you the truth – I know where he might be."

Mariku looked up sharply. "Really?"

"No! Not _really_! I just wanted to get your hopes up."

The sarcasm flew straight past the excited dollmaker. "What are we waiting for, then? Let's go look for him already."

Bakura nodded quickly, and then bent down and picked up Mariku's coat from the floor. He handed it to him, all the while that curious smirk about his face as if to say, _My aren't _you _eager._ Or maybe it wasn't that at all.

* * *

In a movie, they might have torn recklessly down the street to their destination, at speeds baiting the law. Instead they caught a taxi. It was sluggish; the sun was high in the sky. Mariku sighed several times, anger rising and dipping. Bakura would sigh in imitation. His reddish eyes gleamed at Mariku. The Egyptian wondered if this was how he flirted with girls, and snorted.

"What's so funny?"

Mariku didn't answer him.

"We're almost there." The boy patted his knee. It was a pale hand with long, tapered fingers. It looked like Mariku's glove. It looked...pretty. He couldn't imagine anybody calling Bakura pretty, ever, but hey, he and Ryou had to share _something_.

At last they alighted at a gaudy looking district. The driver, a guy with gap teeth and a wispy goatee, grinned at Mariku's handsome tip. Bakura stood in the background, also grinning. Well he would. He hadn't offered to pay for the ride, though he could've afforded it.

But now they were out in the open, and Mariku was going to find Ryou! With the help of Bakura! The blonde couldn't begrudge his companion over a taxi fare.

The street was lined with lifeless clubs. Their neon signs were dimmed. Why would Ryou be…? But that was a question Mariku wasn't prepared to think about yet. The pair walked along beside one another, despite the fact that Mariku had no idea where they were headed.

"What _is_ this place?"

"You don't know about the red light district?"

"I've been living in Kyoto less than a year, you know. And I'm not so pathetic that I need to pay people to get satisfied."

"_I_ sure didn't see your live-in lover anywhere."

_Who would stick around long enough to love him?_

Bakura stopped in front of a ruby-red building that appeared to be known, simply, as _Crimson_. The tinted windows were painted with lewd silhouettes and a sign on the door promised more than a good time.

Although Bakura's voice was airy, Mariku noticed that he was covertly observing him from the periphery of his vision. He was…waiting for a reaction. Mariku nodded without emotion. It was too soon to judge. "Should we go in?"

"What a good idea!" Bakura turned to the doctor and smirked. Without warning, he grabbed Mariku by the hand and pulled him through the door.

Mariku's eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark interior. The room was painted black. Tables, some booths with plush couches in leather and velvet, coloured the same ruby red. A few overhanging lamps cast a dim light. The rest came from the sunlight battling its way through the windows.

At day, there were no patrons sitting around. A portly man sat at the bar counting money. When he saw Bakura and Mariku walk in, he jumped up as if he had been electrocuted.

"For fuck's sake, you go missing for three days and you turn up now? You've got some nerve!" He slapped a fleshy hand on the table. "You're lucky you're so cute, Ryou-chan!"

_Ugh._ Mariku's eyes narrowed.

"Take a closer look, bastard." Bakura's voice was flat as he stalked forward. "Huh. I was going to ask if you'd seen him around, but guess not."

"Ah, it's you." The man rubbed a fist across both eyes, and exhaled. "Jesus, you're worse than a loan shark. What the hell do you want now?"

Bakura stalked across the polished floor, and took a seat across from him. "So where was the last place you saw him then?"

The man scoffed. "Here, you idiot, where else? I've got no life outside of the joint. But I can't complain about this place… It's here or the missus… Hey buddy, who's your friend in the back? Kinda familiar looking. I seen you around before?"

"I'm not your buddy," Bakura replied impatiently, "and he's not my friend. He's the _Doctor_, a very dangerous man. So you'd better co-operate with me. Right, Doctor?"

Mariku couldn't help but laugh at Bakura's description. He had been standing stiffly, but now he melted and walked languorously to take a seat beside the boy. They did not make a particularly threatening pair – yet the man held up both palms. "Jesus. You get crazier every time I see you, kid. "

"This coming from somebody that calls himself the Crimson Criminal."

Meanwhile, Mariku glanced at the piled up notes on the table. _So you make that much selling off pathetic fantasies?_

The man followed Mariku's gaze, and made a tiny _harrumph_ as he adjusted his tie. "Yeah, well. Our Ryou-chan was here Tuesday being his charming old self, and he didn't come in the next day. Or next. That's all I know. Doesn't answer his calls or anything."

"Now, are you _sure_ you don't know where he could be?" Mariku asked.

"Well…" He sounded doubtful. "Ryou-chan's always coming and going, you know that. Last I heard he was after some new guy – or was the new guy after him?"

Mariku was careful to temper himself. "And who is the new guy?"

"Who's this new guy?" Bakura barked at the same time.

"Who can say?" The man drew the notes obsessively towards himself, and began stacking them into neat bundles. "Fucking rumours. He's done this before… He'll be back. In the meantime, we sure do miss him and his money. Send him our way if you see him."

Mariku turned to Bakura. The boy was sitting in silent fury, wondering where his brother was. "What did he say–? Did he really mean to say–?"

"You know," the man pointed out, "you're here often yourself. I should start charging you. Causing me stress and all."

"Believe me," Bakura remarked quietly, "I could make things a _whole_ lot worse for you."

And he rose out of his seat and beckoned Mariku to follow him. The two walked alongside each other, back into the sunlight. Mariku turned back for a moment and thought he saw Ryou's reflection in the window, but of course that was crazy. The street was deserted.

* * *

They spent the rest of the afternoon in and out of bars, strip clubs – they all looked the same. Dim in the daylight, with the same old owners and managers eying them suspiciously. Occasionally a worker, a host, hostess, sitting there wearily. At night these places would light up and put on its glamorous façade. Under the little weak sunlight that settled amongst the dust motes, they were tired.

Mariku finally coughed. He could ignore it no longer. "Does Ryou-san really visit all these places?"

"He's a filthy thing, isn't he?"

Mariku turned his face away. "I–"

Who was he to judge Ryou? Something so light, so angelic. No matter what he did, he didn't deserve this… "I wonder what it is he's looking for. Love? An escape? They're only painted lies." His voice grew surer. "I could show him his own beauty – that would be enough."

"You amaze me." Bakura laughed scornfully and kicked a crate. It was empty, and fell on its side. "You are really oblivious. Well, you'll see."

But Mariku was too caught up his own thoughts. "It must've been difficult. Maybe – if only – did you love him, Bakura-san?"

The laughter stopped. "Wh-what?"

Before Mariku could reply, a man burst into the alleyway, knocking over more crates. He wore a striped buttoned shirt that looked as if it was about to burst at the seams, and his glasses were askew.

"Oh, it's _you_, honey, I've been looking all over for you–"

He almost fell over but his hand shot out in time and hit the brick.

"You've been running away from me again! Heh heh, but I've got you cornered now, honey. Acting real coy, huh? Playing hard to get? You're an upper class babe, you act as if you're too good for me, but I know you play games just to drive me crazy."

Mariku stared at the drunk with delight. "Bakura-san, you have truly awful taste."

He regretted this as soon as the man launched himself at Bakura and grabbed him by the waist.

"Let the fuck go of me, bastard!" Bakura yelled.

The man was tall and thickset. Bakura was hidden behind his back, only one hand curled like dinosaur claw. The shock quickly wore off and Mariku, inexplicably breathing harshly, reached to pull the man off.

But the boy beat him to it. Despite the man's size advantage, Bakura managed to knee him in the gut and send him sprawling onto the concrete. Out of nowhere there was a flash of silver –

_-silver edged knife! going to go stab stab__ very neatly but suddenly there's blood all over the floor! shit this has never happened before… oh my who'll clean up the mess? because she's not going to come back and god knows _he's_ never had to tidy up after himself-_

-and Bakura had the blade pressed to the man's throat.

Mariku felt as if he were the one holding the knife in his hand.

The boy's eyes were feral. "You desperate piece of shit. Listen well. _I know who you are._ And guess what? He wouldn't give you the time of day. But I guess it doesn't matter, because I am _not_ fucking Ryou." Suddenly he laughed, and the laughter echoed off the brick walls, the trash cans – the laughter laughed with him. "H-hahaha! And neither are you, it seems! If you touch me again – if you so much as _look_ at me, call me by his name again – you're fucking _dead_."

The man's forehead was covered with an oily sheen. He could have easily pushed Bakura aside and gained the upper hand, but nobody moved. Mariku? Still reduced to the role of mere spectator. The man, he wasn't even going to try – there was a ferocity in the boy's glare that kept him pinned to the floor.

"I –" The man seemed to choke on the words. "D-don't do anything rash right? I was j-just kidding around with you. I'm real sorry."

"Oh I wouldn't do anything rash. Because I know exactly what I'm doing." He pressed the knife closer. "Now – stupid silly stalker – where's Ryou?"

"I-I don't know. Uh." The man swallowed, hard.

"Hnn? Sorry? What was that? I'm a little deaf. I only hear the things I want to hear."

The man whimpered as the knife sank into superficial layers of skin. Drops of blood beaded at the surface. "O-o-okay! I heard that – I didn't want to believe it, so I was – I was so happy when I saw you and I thought you were – w-well this morning I heard that he'd gone to Egypt."

Mariku felt something cold run down his spine.

"Don't be stupid!" Bakura spat out through clenched teeth.

"I-I don't know, that's j-just what I heard from one of the guys. Y-you know–" He scowled momentarily. " –the ones that can afford his, uh, night services."

_Oh._

Bakura's face twitched. "What else did they say?"

"N-not much. Just complaining they might not s-see him for a while because he's with some guy c-called the Pharaoh. That's a-all I know."

"Are – you – sure?"

The knife blade dragged. Just a little bit.

"Y-yes! I swear!" The man scrunched up his eyes, and horrible, telltale tears leaked at the corners.

"You're nothing but a perverted bastard. All of you. I should fucking kill you all." Bakura pushed the man away forcibly, and he bumped into the crates. "I'll let you live since you were useful. But consider that a warning. If you're stupid enough to even think about telling anybody that you ever met me, you will regret it. Understand?"

The man fumbled into a crouching position, glasses flashing. He was looking here, there, _anywhere_ but Bakura. But like a horrific crash scene, his eyes were drawn to the boy's… Quickly, he looked away with reddened cheeks.

"Now fuck off."

The man scrambled up hastily and ran out of the alleyway.

Mariku was still standing there, detached. "Is that what you were trying to tell me?"

Bakura turned to him, faux-surprise on his face. "Hnn? _What_ was I trying to tell you?"

"That Ryou-san is a prostitute." It fell out of his mouth like a lump of lead.

"I prefer the term STD-riddled whore," Bakura answered. He cleaned the knife blade with the hem of his shirt, eyes shut in bliss overkill. "So – what do you think of your wonderful little _storybook prince_ now?"

"…What do you want me to say."

"That he's worthless. Ugly. We all knew it. You had to find out the hard way! I'm sorry for you." Another one of those wretched mock sighs. "The search ends here, right?"

_The hood fell away. Mariku gasped. __He was perfect. The gentle smile. The slightly pinkened cheeks. The eyes that…were widened, desperate, looking sidelong at him…screaming "Help!"_

But Ryou's eyes had never looked like that.

Bakura was a boy of few tricks. He was observing Mariku now, in that way that he did – thinking he was being clandestine when it was completely obvious.

"I don't care what he does," Mariku said. "Because he's beautiful. He's my art."

Bakura's smirk wavered. "You're a liar."

_The screams were getting louder._

"I'm looking for him, Bakura."

The boy's knife hand twitched.

_And LOUDER._

"With you."

_Silence._

"I'll come with you, Bakura," Mariku pressed on, because suddenly it all made _so_ much sense to him. He was dancing upon the bridge that divided delicacy and excitement. "I will. I was wrong about you. Before that– before that drunk came along – I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I was wrong, because you–"

"This is a stain that'll never come out," Bakura muttered, the stained hem pinched between his fingers.

"It will, Bakura," Mariku assured him. "Anyway, it doesn't matter–"

"No, don't," Bakura snapped. He flipped the knife over and stared at his reflection. His face was torn. (He wanted to disbelieve Mariku, he did.) "You wouldn't really, anyway. Who the fuck would waste their time on _him_?"

"He's my art. What he does in his spare time is none of my business."

"You keep saying that he's _art_," Bakura replied sardonically. "Why's that so fucking special?"

"You knew what it meant to me from the moment you stepped foot into my apartment."

_The dolls, they were everywhere. Sitting together, strewn on the floor, all so small and lovely. He was attracted to one swathed in a black blanket, with eyes the same colour as Mariku's... A startling plum._

"I did, didn't I?" Bakura breathed shakily. He accidentally smiled – a true smile, now. But then he remembered he was being watched, and with a quick upturn of the lips, he transformed the smile into his familiar smirk. "Well, well! I suppose you passed the test then… Not anybody can look for him with me. Least of all four-eyes drunkards!"

_We saw a little bit into his heart,_ said the young voice inside Mariku. He tried to ignore it, but knew that it was right. "Well, it's lucky I have twenty-twenty vision."

"Yes, it _is_, you _are_, because he's your art…" Bakura stared out of the alleyway, not at the rubbish swirling around the empty parking spaces or the clubs opposite them, but at something way high up. "Who does the city belong to?"

Mariku shook his head, thinking the boy was still talking to himself.

"I know how we can get there."

"Where?" Mariku asked just as he realized the answer.

Egypt.

_Egypt._

* * *

**A/N:** Now do you see why it takes so long to write? Tell me if it gets too confusing. I mean, obviously it's supposed to be that way, but I don't want it to be totally esoteric... I'd love to know what you think!

_1. Prostitution is illegal in Japan.  
2. Bakura doesn't have an unreasonable hatred towards people with glasses, he just sucks at comebacks. (Hahaha, you made me notice that Shantih. But I still love him for it!)_


End file.
